


I’ll Come to You Blind

by Zercalo



Series: Neverending Stories [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dark, Detective Derek Hale, M/M, Minor Character Death, Missing Persons, Murder Mystery, Private Investigator Stiles Stilinski, and kind of disturbing honestly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 14:08:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11969004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zercalo/pseuds/Zercalo
Summary: Derek needs to find some missing teenagers and he does not approve of Stiles' attempts to help him.





	I’ll Come to You Blind

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying really hard right now to finish that epic HP/TW fic and this keeps distracting me so I'm dumping it here for now. NOT FINISHED, obviously, but I do hope to finish it later.

****

  


Derek returns from the bathroom to Stiles Stilinski perched on his desk, ass on Derek’s files and huge, smug smirk on his face.

 

“What?” Derek instantly snaps, because he’s learned to hate that fucking smirk.

 

“Hi, Detective Hale,” Stiles says pointedly. “You’re looking especially grumpy today. A case eating up at your sleep?”

 

He’s actually right, of course. Derek’s got two missing teenaegers to find and not a clue. He moves Stiles’ legs to drop into his chair. “What do you want?”

 

“A back rub,” Stiles says promptly. “And a drink.”

 

“You’re not old enough to drink.” He is, however, old enough to get a PI license and start his own business with his college fund or something. Much to Derek’s dismay.

 

Stiles looks down on him, eyebrows up. “I’d settle for coffee.”

 

“Stiles,” Derek warns because seriously, it’s been a long week. “Get off my desk. And start talking.”

 

He doesn’t get off the desk, but he does lean a little closer to Derek, the smirk mellowing. “Alright, fine. I had a lovely chat with Mrs. Wiggins this morning. Well, I had a lovely cookie, the chat was kinda boring. How much can a person care about Prairie Roses anyway? ”

 

Derek sighs.

 

“Am I supposed to know who that is?”

 

“Yes, Detective. You are. Boring Mrs. Wiggins is a lonely old lady with a lot of free time that she spends in her backyard with her roses. And happens to live next door to the Lahey house, which is where this conversation turns interesting.”

 

It’s not that Derek hasn’t known something like this was coming, he has. He makes sure that he’s frowning disapprovingly at Stiles, even as he picks up his notebook.

 

“Right. We questioned her. She doesn’t know anything about Isaac Lahey or what’s happened to him.”

 

“Of course not. Lahey Senior is not exactly the most pleasant of neighbors, is he? Especially to noisy old ladies, I bet.” There’s something unfamiliar in Stiles’ expression now, something that makes Derek straighten his back and listen. Something almost… sinister. “But she does spend a lot of time in her yard, and while her sight and hearing are not what they used to be, she has noticed that Isaac Lahey spends a significant amount of time in the basement. She sees him looking out of the window sometimes, you see.”

 

“So what, the kid has a rec room down there? His father hasn’t mentioned that.”

 

“Must be full of some very interesting rec equipment, if he spends enough time peering through the window to be noticed by a practically blind old lady. And I can’t imagine the view is that good, you know?”

 

Derek doesn’t know. He hasn’t paid any attention to the basement of the Lahey house. He has been through the kid’s room three times, floor to ceiling, wall to wall - and also through the bathroom, the living room and the kitchen - and Isaac’s father never once mentioned that there could be anything of significance in the basement.

 

Stiles slips off Derek’s desk. “Oh, and make sure Lahey fixes that basement window. It can’t be good for the evidence and the foundation of the house and stuff for that thing to stay broken. Bye, Detective!”

 

Derek watches him go. He’s helpless to do anything but watch him go, long steps and a bright smile for everyone he meets in the way, hair in serious need of cutting.

 

“Was that Stiles?” Derek looks away. Stiles is almost at the corner anyway. Braeden is back anyway and he should really focus on what she’s saying. “Did he have something good?”

 

It’s a valid question because Stiles sometimes comes into the police station just to sniff around. Derek is not completely sure why they let him - Braeden and him, the other detectives, the officers, the Captain. His father is a sheriff down south and Stiles is helpful, that’s all. But he also broke into the basement of the Lahey house and it’s not his first time to break the law, so they probably shouldn’t.

 

But no one’s going to say anything. And Derek is definitely going to check that basement out.

 

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

 

It’s a shit storm. Lahey won’t let them look into the basement, tells them with a wild, crazy look in his eyes that they have no right. Braeden's temper is about as short as Derek’s patience and by the time the forensic team comes to the house, she’s got a shiner, Lahey is in handcuffs in the back seat of their car and Derek is completely sure that Isaac spent a lot of time in the empty basement with only an old chest freezer and some suspicious stains on the walls for decoration.

 

Lahey reported Isaac missing. He hinted he thought that Isaac might have ran away. That’s still possible, of course, any kid would want out of the hell that’s this house, but there is now a possibility that this - this heartbreaking abuse - went too far.

 

It’s quite possible that Isaac is dead.

 

The forensic team collects glass from the broken window and Derek doesn’t bother to tell them that it happened just this morning. Stiles couldn’t have gotten inside through the bars anyway.

 

They take Lahey into the station and spend hours in the interrogation room. Not everything that happens there is strictly legal, but they do manage to get a description to match the scene - Isaac is a bad boy. Isaac needs discipline. Isaac does better at school when there is a risk and reward system in place.

 

Not getting locked in a freezer is not a reward. Derek is nauseous, but that’s partially because he’s had too much bad coffee on an empty stomach.

 

He goes home after his shift has ended. He’s too tired to make himself a meal at his apartment, so he stops by his favorite little restaurant. There’s little comfort in his rich grilled chicken sandwich, and the little sleep he catches between reading through the witnesses statements is heavy, restless.

 

The first thing next day at work, Derek and Braeden have to talk to the parents who reported their daughter missing.

 

Beacon Hills is not a very large city. Once all the efforts to give it an economic boost at the end of the twentieth century fell through, people moved away. There are a lot of abandoned buildings, boarded up homes and half-empty classrooms in Beacon Hills. Of course, teenagers do sometimes go missing.

 

But not this often. Not three teenagers in three consecutive weeks. There’s just not enough of teenagers in Beacon Hills for that to be any sort of norm.

 

Erica Reyes is a good girl. She’s a decent student, has a great comic book collection but not many close friends. No, she would never run away from home, especially not without her medication. Her epilepsy medication.

 

Derek feels a hundred years all.

 

“You think they’re all related?” he asks Braeden as they go though Erica’s computer.

 

She thinks about it. “Isaac and Erica, maybe. But Jackson? He has nothing in common with these two. I don’t see it.”

 

They do have a few things in common, though. They are the same age, go to the same school. But that’s about it.

 

Still, Derek goes back to the school as Braeden works on the parents. He tries to track down any friends - or at least someone she is relatively friendly with - to talk to. There’s no one. The girl is not having a blast with her high school experience.

 

The teachers like her - and pity her. She’s had a few epilepsy episodes since she’s started high school and the kids have not let her forget that.  

 

Only a few teachers in the whole school even remember Isaac. Derek wonders if that’s better or worse.

 

He finds Jackson’s friends and his girlfriend and asks them if they know or have heard of Erica and Isaac. It gets him nowhere. They won’t talk to him.

 

When he comes back to the station, Braedan is getting coffee for Erica’s mother. Derek turns on his heel against the helpless picture and leaves the station. He gets some food to go.

 

Stiles’ little office is in a rundown building at the very edge of the decaying industrial area. It’s cluttered and it needs dusting, and Stiles is sleeping on the tiny sofa in the corner. His legs are far too long for it. The position looks painful but his breathing is deep and even.

 

Derek takes a seat at his desk, with some glee - he’d consider sitting on the desk, but it looks like it’ll fall apart if he tried. He looks around. Most of the drawers are broken. He goes through the few that are not. He tries to go through the computer, because that’s all that’s left.

 

“What you’re doin’?” Stiles mumbles, voice low. He’s still stretched on the sofa, rumpled and soft. Derek looks away.

 

“I’m trying to guess your password.”

 

Stiles sits up, rubs his eyes. “What was your first guess?”

 

“Veronica Mars, teenaged detective.”

 

“Too many characters. You tried your birthday yet?”

 

Derek types it in. “That’s not it.”

 

“Maybe it’s my birthday.”

 

“It’s not.” Because he has tried that before.

 

“Huh,” Stiles says, as if he’s really confused. “I could have sworn that was it. Maybe it’s a combination of our birthdays?”

 

It’s probably SpongeBob’s birthday or something. Derek gives it up as bad business. “You hungry?”

 

Stiles promptly wakes up and widens his eyes on Derek in wonder. “You got me food? You? _Why_?” And then, after a pause, suspiciously, “What kind of food?” like he’s expecting Derek has fished something out of a dumpster on his way over.

 

“It’s just sandwiches from a little Italian place near my apartment. Come on.”

 

It occurs to Derek that he’s practically cajoling Stiles here. He’s tired, though, and hungry and this cluttered, dingy little office is making him feel warm and cocooned.

 

Instead of taking the guest chair or demand Derek gets off his, Stiles puts his ass on his desk. It groans and wobbles, but remains standing. Stiles grabs the nearest wrap like he’s afraid Derek’s going to change his mind and eat it himself.

 

“What’s up?”

 

There’s no use in pretending he’s here to be friendly, but Derek does unwraps his own food and eats about a third of his sandwich before he says, “A girl went missing yesterday. She didn’t come home from school. The parents called the police last night so it was on my desk first thing this morning.”

 

“Same age?”

 

“Same age, same school.”

 

“Is she friends with Isaac or Jackson?”

 

“As far as I can tell, she has no friends, just like Isaac.”

 

“And unlike Jackson. This can’t be normal, right? It’s not normal that this many kids would pick this particular month to run away from home. Unless they’re running to a particular place. Someplace new, at least to them.”

 

“What?” Derek asks, but it doesn’t matter. That’s not what Stiles believes, just like Derek doesn’t.

 

“A newly opened sanctuary? A cult disguised as a safe haven for lonely and misunderstood teenagers?”

 

Fine, Derek will be the one to say it. “Or they are dead.”

 

Stiles balls up the empty, greasy paper and misses the basket in the corner. “Or that.”

 

“Look…”

 

Stiles interrupts him, “But you hate when I get involved in your work.”

 

“You should be working on the cases you’re paid for,” Derek tells him, not for the first time. Stiles’ tidbits of help are often appreciated at the station, but he’s not working there. “Not police work.”

 

“Someone would have to actually hire me for that.”

 

That is not something Derek has considered. Stiles is really good at what he does. He should have work.

 

He shakes it off. “Just, go to the school. Try to find something out - anything that connects these three kids. Teenagers don’t really want to talk to the police.”

 

“But they’ll talk to me?”

 

“You don’t have to tell them what you do. You could blend in.”

 

Stiles grins down at him, wide and amused. “Are you trying to take advantage of my youthful looks, Detective?”

 

Derek needs to leave, now, but he looks instead at Stiles’ jeans-clad thigh and wonders if it would make a decent pillow.

 

“I’ll pay you.”

 

“To shut up? Because I had that offer before and it didn’t work out for anyone.”

 

“To get any info on these kids that could help me find them.”

 

Stiles flinches. “You don’t have to pay me, Jesus. I’ll do it. You know I will.”

 

Derek does know. “If you’re going to be doing my job for me, it’s only fair you get my paycheck as well.”

 

“Great. Now I’m charity case.”

 

“How is getting paid for the work you do charity?”

 

“Thanks for the food, Detective Hale,” Stiles says, for the first time ever not making it sound dirty and flirty. “Now let’s get to business, since I have to go pretend I’m a highschooler. Because that wasn’t painful enough the first time around.”

 

Derek checks his watch. “But the school is almost out.”

 

“And so will be the most of the staff and the students. But some of the teams have practice, the clubs are meeting up and so on, and no one will care where I go. Tell me about the girl.”

 

Some sort of plan is in motion, and Derek’s is relaxing, a little. He tells Stiles about Erica and then he leaves.

 

Derek spends the rest of his afternoon looking through the files, trying to see if there’s anything he’s missed. He falls asleep early, dreams about stumbling in the darkness and tripping over rocks and branches. It’s after midnight when his phones rings, and he doesn’t feel rested at all when he picks up the call.

 

“Derek,” Stiles says, and it’s enough to make every fucking hair on Derek’s body rise, to get him up to his feet in less than a second.

 

“Where are you?”

 

“I’m - I’m okay. There’s no one here. No one alive.” It’s not as reassuring as Stiles has intended it because his voice is shaky and cracked.

 

Derek demands, “Tell me where you are.”

 

Stiles gives him an address that doesn’t spark any recognition. Derek is lucky he fell asleep dressed, otherwise he’d be running out through his door without his pajamas. It’s another proof he doesn’t need to confirm the situation he doesn’t want.

 

The house Derek stops his car in front of is lit like Christmas. Stiles is sitting on the front steps, right sleeve drenched in blood. People have started gathering on the street.

 

“I’ll call an ambulance,” Derek says right away.

 

“I already did. Come on, let’s wait inside.”

 

Derek resists checking him for wounds, but he maps the way Stiles is walking toward the house in front of him. The arm seems to be the only thing wounded.

 

‘What happened to you arm?”

 

“Someone was shooting at me?” Stiles makes it sound like a question, a little. He nods toward a few bullet holes in the wall near the front door, but Derek’s instinct, once again, is to check him over instead of look  back. He thinks Stiles is read him correctly, this time. “I didn’t get hit and I didn’t see who it was. I heard the safety on the gun in the dark - it’s a familiar sound. I threw myself out of the way.”

 

Derek looks at the place Stiles’ is gesturing at. He threw himself out of the way of the bullet, right into the hallway mirror. It’s broken into pieces, some still inside the frame. There’s blood on them.

 

Derek looks away. “Whose house is this?”

 

“Jackson’s.” Stiles makes a face, standing in the middle of the hallway. “It’s a rental, actually. This is the house he’s - he was keeping from his parents. To throw parties, bring his girlfriend. There’s a pool in the back and everything. To have the allowance that big, huh?”

 

He tries to smile, but like his voice, it’s just an echo. Stiles has used the past tense talking about Jackson - he’d never make that mistake. Derek knows exactly what’s waiting for him inside this house.

 

“No one mentioned anything about this place.”

 

“I spent the evening with Jackson’s best friend, Danny. It took a bit of…” Stiles shakes his head, his shadow of a smile turning into a grimace. “He told me. He was sure Jackson was here, sleeping off a late night or something, when he was first reported missing. He knew where the keys were, so he came in and checked. He’s completely sure Jackson skipped town, by the way. Mad as hell.”

 

“But he decided not to tell us anything.”

 

“So Jackson doesn’t get into trouble. When he comes back.”

 

“Jackson is dead, isn’t he?”

 

Stiles nods a little, starts walking. “I’ll show you. Danny didn’t have a reason to look into the basement, but I checked it. Just in case, you know. Fuck.”

 

He needs a moment to steady his hand before it’ll wrap around the knob. Derek removes it, as gently as he can.

 

“How about you let me see for myself?”

 

Stiles lets out a breath he’s been holding, relief obvious and unashamed.  “I can hear the sirens approaching, anyway. I’ll go wait for them in front of the house. But you might want some company. Down there…” Jackson is his case. Derek shakes his head, but Stiles make a steady eye contact. “It’s not just Jackson down there. _Derek_. I think - it’s all three of them.”

 

That’s a shock. It knocks Derek’s breath out but all he does is nod and open the door.

 

The sight is horrific. The smell is even worse, in a way. Three bodies - Erica’s long blond hair is all over her face and her body is in curled up tightly, but Derek can still tell it’s her. There are strange wounds and bruises all over her arms. It’s unlike anything Derek’s ever seen.

 

Isaac is harder to recognize, he’s been down here longer. And Derek can only tell the third body is Jackson because of the obviously expensive shoes his corpse is wearing.

 

Derek climbs up the stairs and prepares for a long night of questions. The Homicide is going to take this case now, and they will need every thread of info Derek can give them, including how Stiles has even found this place.

 

The forensic team, all wrapped up in protective plastic and up to their noses in their equipment, is coming in and out of the house as Derek sits there with the Homicide detectives. Braedan joins them at some point. Stiles has gone to sit in the passenger seat of Derek’s unlocked car, wrapped in a blanket the ambulance gave him, pale and quiet.

 

It’s almost dawn when they’re finally allowed to go home.

 

“Where do you live?” Derek asks when he starts the engine.

 

Stiles gives him the address that’s in the same street as his office - in the rundown, unsafe neighbourhood. He’s quiet during the ride, right until Derek’s parked in front of a building that doesn’t seem fit to house rats, less alone humans. “What do I do now?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Just what - what am I supposed to do now? How do you…”

 

Derek is so distracted by the unhealthy creak in his voice, it takes him a second to get it. This has been Stiles’ first murder site. It’s maybe the first time he’s seen a dead body.

 

It’s never easy, but this…

 

“I don’t know. Do something that will distract you. Call your dad?”

 

And then what? Derek doesn’t really know and he’s not sure what he’s supposed to say. Stiles has no family in town, he’s never mentioned any friends.

 

“What do _you_ do?” Stiles wants to know.

 

Go home. Go to his mother. Derek’s always mocked himself for it, inside his head,  but that’s what he does when the job becomes too dark to handle.

 

He turns off the engine. “I’ll show you, if you want. Pack an overnight bag?”

 

Stiles sinks back into his seat and just breathes for a second. That hasn’t been a plan, but Derek can’t regret he’s offered when Stiles opens his eyes again to glance at him. It feels like he’s finally home, finally himself, for the first time tonight.

 

“Okay.” Stiles opens the door, then frowns back at Derek. “You won’t leave without me, right?”

 

Derek is too tired to rolls his eyes, so he opens his the door on his side, “I’ll keep you company. Come on.”

 

The building is slightly better inside, but only slightly. The elevator is not in function. Only a few apartments they pass by on their way up the stairs seem to be occupied.

 

Stiles’ place is on the top floor, the fourth. It’s full of old furniture, but the kitchen is clean and well equipped, and the view of the city and the preserve is stunning, actually. Derek hasn’t noticed this driving, but the building must be on elevated ground.

 

Stiles makes a quick work of grabbing a ratty backpack and stuffing a few things inside and they’re on their way.

 

Derek doesn’t need anything, he’s taking this trip often enough to warrant him his own drawer in his old room. It’s a two hours long drive, straight up north. Stiles spends it sleeping, head at an impossible angle and noisy even now.  Derek turns off the radio - he tells himself it’s so it doesn't wake him up, but he knows it’s to make sure he hears it if Stiles is having a nightmare.

 

It’s morning when they arrive, but the farm is active, the gates already wide open. Of course it is, it’s August. There’s so much to be done. Derek parks in front of the house, at the end of the long dirt path.

 

He touches Stiles’ shoulder, “Hey. Wake up.”

 

It’s stupid, but Stiles’ careful look around makes him nervous. There’s no judgement there, just a slow smile spreading, sweet in an uncharacteristic openness.

 

“I knew you grew up on a farm. I _knew_ it.”

 

Derek scoffs, opens the door. “Sure.”

 

“I did!” Stiles follows him out, says, “That case with the butcher’s wife? You didn’t just know it was pork for that pork belly that fell on the floor, you knew the name of the breed.”

 

Derek is staring at him over the hood. “You weren't even there.”

 

Stiles rolls his eyes like Derek’ being ridiculous, counts on his fingers, “You always know what the weather is going to be like, Braeden's mentioned that you never sleep in, not even on weekends, and your hands are callused.”

 

It’s dizzying, finding out someone’s paying that much attention to you. Derek doesn’t know what to say, settles on, “I can’t predict the weather.”

 

That earns him a laugh, “But you watch the forecast every day, obsessively, even though it hardly matters in the middle of the city.”

 

“Derek?” comes a voice from the porch, helps him stop staring at Stiles and his bright, smug eyes.

 

“Mom,” he answers, goes up to give her a hug. She’s got Wren in her arms and he drops a kiss on baby’s head. He’s too young to remember Derek, really, but he’s a friendly baby, always happy when he’s surrounded by people. He giggles up at Derek.

 

Mom, on the other hand, is looking down at Stiles, who is awkwardly making his way up the porch steps. “Hello.”

 

“Mrs. Hale. Hi.”

 

“Mom, this is a coworker of mine,” Derek says, but she glances sideways at him like _sell it to someone else, kid_ before smiling. Instead of shaking his hand, mom leans to give Stiles a one armed hug and as Derek watches him hook his head over her shoulder, just for a second, eyes falling shut, he knows just how fucked he is. How hopelessly _gone._

 

Stiles jerks away first, red faced, but he can’t move away because Wren has his hair in his tiny fist and is not letting go.

 

“Ouch,” Stiles says, but he’s laughing and Wren giggles harder.

 

Derek refuses to get involved. He is of the opinion that Stiles needs to cut his hair and he won’t interfere with his point being proven for him. Mom tries to separate them, unsuccessfully. “I’m so sorry, he’s been doing that lately.”

 

In the end, Stiles picks Wren up and solves the problem. Well, he gets the other small hand in his hair, but he’s holding the baby high enough so he doesn’t have to hunch over to avoid hair pulling.

 

He’s holding Wren on his injured side and that has to hurt, but Derek is reluctant to do or say anything that will stop Stiles from making silly faces at the baby.

 

“Well, come on inside. We haven’t had breakfast yet. Are you hungry?”

 

“Tired. Long night at work.” Before she can suggest something awkward, Derek adds, “Can Stiles stay in Cora’s room, mom?”  


“Stiles,” Talia says, her tone making it quite clear that Laura and her talk about him behind his back. “Yes, of course. But I still have breakfast to make, so you will have to take care of that.”

 

Thankfully, Wren’s grown bored of pulling Stiles’ hair while they were making their way inside, so untangling him is easier.  Derek leads the way upstairs as Talia puts the baby in the baby chair.

 

“So the kid is…” Stiles prompts, following Derek as he grabs fresh sheets from the hallways linen closet.

 

“Wren is my sister’s younger kid.”

 

“Which sister?”

 

Derek pauses to give him a suspicious look. How much does he know about Derek, exactly? “Laura’s.”

 

“Ah, the journalist,” Stiles nods, then notices Derek eyeing him. “What? I ask a lot of questions. And when I ask often enough, people even answer.”

 

Derek shakes his head. “I’ve got this. Go take a shower, if you want. There’s a bathroom across the hall.”

 

Stiles takes him up on it. Cora’s room done, Derek fixes the bed in his old room. He sits down, just for a minute, then puts his head on the pillow because keeping his eyes open is starting to hurt.

 

A tractor is rumbling in the distant, sound of the engine coming in clear through the open window. The air smells a little like smoke. The chickens are a little restless.

 

Derek falls asleep.

  
  



End file.
